


Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens

by galefaye



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blight, Corruption, Darkspawn, Death, F/M, Fanfiction, Ferelden, Free Marches, Grey Wardens, Grief, Orlais, Sex, Val Royeaux, Violence, Weisshaupt Fortress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galefaye/pseuds/galefaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanfiction, based on the game Dragon Age: Origins, following Ferelden's sole Grey Warden Alistair in the aftermath of Thedas' Fifth Blight and the slaying of the tainted god Urthemiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vision of a Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



There was a lump in Alistair's throat. It hurt. It actually felt like an entire apple had been rammed down his throat, something he probably would have made a quip on under normal circumstances. These, however... These were not normal circumstances. 

The Grey Warden bit his lip to stop any sound from emerging. His eyes had, eventually, accepted what they say as true, but his mind still could not seem to quite fathom what had happened. For before him, layed out upon a stone table, was one of the best friends and greatest Wardens he had ever known; Lyna, an elf of the wandering Dalish tribes, which she would never see again.

They had left her in the armour on which she had died, returned the Dalish knives she had always worn to the sheaths upon her back. There had been no time between then and now to change her, no hands spare to do so. Even if there had been... She it was how she would have liked to be. That was what he thought. 

The woman looked starkly beautiful, pale skin in stark contrast to her dark lips, which even now curved up in an almost invisible half smile. The Chantry had done that right, at least. Or had she died with that smile still in place? It wouldn't have surprised him a bit. White hair was pulled back into the familiar ponytail at the back of her head, revealing swirling leaf-and-vine markings that curled around vibrant green eyes that would never open again. Somehow, that was what Alistair found the saddest; Lyna, so curious and so awed of the things she saw outside the forests that were all she knew, would never get to see all the things he had told her of, Orlais, Weisshaupt, the places he himself had read about in Redcliffe's libraries as a child. She had dreamt of adventure; all she had gotten was death. 

The Templar's eyes were stuck to the body as though they had been nailed there. He felt people moving around him, heard people speaking to him, but could not bring himself to break the intense concentration he found himself in. He recognised Wynne, patting him upon the arm, offering him comforts. When he did not respond, she told him gently of something to do with Circle Tower, and was gone soon after. Oghren tried to give him a strong drink, 'to numb the loss', but it elicited the same empty silence, and before long he too was gone. Zevran... no, Zevran was not here, was he? Zevran had fallen from Fork Drakon in that last, fateful encounter with the Archdemon, though he had probably already been dead when he hit the ground, every bone in his body crushed to powder by a single swipe of that mighty tail. It was a horrible thing, to see someone you had fought alongside ended so brutally, as though they mattered as much as a moth, even someone like the Antivan assassin. 

The mabari hound, too, was not present. Still Alastair could not recall the complicated Dalish name Lyna had given him, but the dog had been fearsome and loyal, and intelligent as most people he had ever known. The mabari hadn't been at Fort Drakon, but later that night the Warden had heard him howling somewhere off in the hills outside the battle torn Denerim, a distressingly mournful sound, as though he knew the fate that had met with his mistress atop that tower.

And yet, there was someone else not present, someone who he had almost expected to be... Oh, of course. Morrigan. 

Her and Lyna had been close, perhaps due to being the only young women in the group- though the witch could hardly be counted as a normal woman. Alistair had seen them both in camp, by the small fire Morrigan had kept to in the corner, discussing all manner of things for hours on end. Many a time he had tempted to go and join in the conversation, but no doubt he would have been rebuked in an instant. Besides, he had never liked the Shapeshifter, and got the distinct notion that the feeling was mutual. Even so, he had expected Morrigan to be one of the first people to try and convince the elven Warden not to strike the killing blow, and leave Alistair himself to do so, but instead she had vanished from Redcliffe Castle the very night before they marched on Denerim, no doubt to save her own skin. She could have saved countless lives in the battle, but she had turned tail and fled like a coward. It was... pitiful. 

Even as thoughts like continued to spin around and around in the Warden's stricken brain, he felt a hand touch his arm, and a voice speak close by him. For some reason, this one seemed to have more of an effect than the others, and he managed to tear his gaze gradually away from where he felt he could have left it until he died of sheer sadness. Perhaps it was the tone it took, or perhaps the deeply ingrained instinct that he must answer to his Queen. Whatever the reason, slowly, he turned.

"Alistair."

Queen Anora's voice was gentler now that she knew she had his attention. She was looking up at him, and yet it still felt as though above him. Behind her stood a full regiment of guards, their armour freshly shined so that they glinted in the sunlight, their spears like a forest of particular straight, sharp trees. Alistair wondered absently whether she was going to have him arrested and executed for executing her father, but couldn't really find it in him to truly care. 

"Alistair. I know you are sad. And I'm sorry. But... You are expected. And your Warden needs an escort."

That brought the young Templar to attention. She was right, of course, and... Well, he knew she was doing him a favour. The Blight was over, the Archdemon slain; the Wardens were not needed in Ferelden just now. When the task was done, then he could return. But now...

"Yes, your Highness. Thank you."

Alistair needed to travel to Weisshaupt.


	2. Fire and Darkspawn

Five weeks of marching along a dirt road had dulled the wicked edge of pain for the Denerim guard regiment. The Blight and the Archdemon all felt a long time ago, a different life. The novelty of escorting the deceased remains of Ferelden's greatest hero had been quickly lost to the men, too, in the very first week. Armour became dirtied with the dust of the road, the forest of spears had become slightly lopsided as though in a strong gale, and tightly formed ranks broke up into smaller clusters of fellows and drinking companions. The complaining set in soon after, and before long every man was whining of some ache or sore, some seeming even to have forgotten went they were out here at all. The longest forced march they had ever had to endure was the two day march from Redcliffe to Denerim, and then their spirits had been well fuelled furnaces, furious at the monsters who had invaded their country and slaughtered their people, eager for revenge. In comparison, this seemed a little... pointless. 

It appeared as though Alistair was the only one still taking this seriously, marching on in morbid silence day after day. His mind would not turn from the pain that had swamped into his mind that day, smothering all else in a tidal wave of horror. However, just recently- no more than a day or two in fact- something had gnawing at the back of his mind, a half shrouded knowledge that all was not well. The group were in Orlais now, and making fairly good time (despite the disapproving complaints that this brought). Somewhere between Velun and Val Foret, if they kept up the same pace throughout they could reach the next settlement within two days. 

It was strange, Alistair contemplated with the small corner of his mind which still complied when he asked it to think. This was Orlais, the almost undisputed most powerful country in Thedas, thriving and pulsing with life; and yet ever since leaving Verchiel- where they had been treated with suspicion at first, but had eventually managed to trade for some supplies when they had flashed Ferelden sovereigns- the group had not come across a single person. The only thing they had found was a single, lonely farmhouse, abandoned, and in what looked like a hurry, with tools and the like abandoned upon the ground. As though the people who had been using them had abruptly fled...

Perhaps if his brain hadn't been so focused on being depressed, so inward facing, perhaps then he would have noticed. As he moped silently at the head of the ragged column, his charge safely in the centre in the horse-drawn cart, the Grey Warden felt once more that flicker of unease, that sense of wrongness, of... darkness. His lips had time only to mouth a silent 'Maker', and then...

Blood.

Most of the men were dead before they had time to scream, but for those who did, it was a long anguished wail of sheer agony that cut into Alistair's ears like the jagged blades that sliced and sawed at their flesh. Shrieks and Hurlocks and Genlocks threw themselves in a gory frenzy against the regiment, swords and knives and axes hacking and slashing, turning an escort into a bloody massacre in a matter of instants. 

This couldn't... They couldn't... How... The Blight... Even as the young Templar's mind fumbled for explanations, struggling desperately to apply some sort of logic to the situation into which he had been catapulted, he could feel his body responding, guided by the instincts he had honed like a sword every day for the best part of his life.

The hefty longsword he wielded flashed in a dangerous arc, drawing darkspawn blood before the rectangular shield had even cleared his back, the griffin insignia inscribed upon its hilt flickering in the light. An Alpha Hurlock delivered what should have been a devastating blow, but Alistair had been fighting darkspawn for more than a year now, and the creature's attacks were wild and imprecise. The deformed blade rang off the curved shield in a spray of sparks, and moments later the offending Hurlock staggered clumsily backwards, its severed neck a fountain of garish cerise. 

Three more of the putrid beasts died on the tip of his sword, practically impaling themselves in their eagerness to lay into him, and the Warden was just thinking that he might hold his own in the vastly unbalanced fight, when he saw a shape loom up in his peripheral sense. Brown eyes filled with dread turned in that direction, and Alistair clenched his jaw in anxiety as an Ogre, colossal and ape-like, lumbered into the fray. Except... no, it was bigger, far bigger, than any darkspawn he had ever seen,excepting the Archdemon itself. Whatever had remained of the Denerim regiment shattered as it waded in amongst them and the Grey Warden, saved from the main onslaught by the small amount of separation he had put between himself and them, could only watch, horror stricken, as fully armoured men were turned into puddles of gore upon the dusty ground. One guardsman broke, and tried to run, only to be snatched up mid-stride. The Ogre seemed to consider him for a moment, before it placed the helmeted head between its teeth, and popped it like a grape. The flailing limbs immediately stilled, and the body dangled limply. 

It was then that the realisation came to Alistair that he had never before been alone on a battlefield. Duncan, or Lyna, or one of the many people she had inspired to her cause, he had never faced an enemy without someone to watch his back. And yet now he stood here, a solitary human amidst a small ocean of darkspawn: all of which were now slowly turning to face him. A ragged ring began to form about the Warden, Hurlocks and Shrieks jostling for a better position to charge when the time inevitably came, stocky Genlocks trying just to get into the circle, and all the while, the Ogre, towering above them all like some giant statue into which the Maker had breathed life- or perhaps coughed life, to look at it. The Warden felt like he was standing in the eye of the storm, that if he took a step in any direction he would be torn asunder by the roaring, shrieking tempest about him. 

For a few seconds, there was a stillness, absolute to a point he had never before seen in darkspawn. Then, as though someone had given some command audible only to those putrid creatures, the Ogre let out a bellowing howl, its primate face turned skywards, and the forces came crashing together like displaced water surging forth to occupy a space it had previously been denied. Alistair knew he should make for the weakest link of the chain, to break out; but that weak spot happened to be a Genlock who had positioned itself directly beside the huge form of the Ogre. With a dismayed grimace, he raised his shield and braced himself for the inevitable impact. When it came, however, the Templar realised his mistake: there was no way he could have defending from such a force, no matter how hard he tried- no human could possibly stop it. A fist almost as large as he was himself crashed into the rectangular shield, denting the metal. Alistair felt something break. Then he felt several other somethings break as the collosus knocked him to the ground, and proceeded to try and crush him into it. 

He couldn't move. Panic began to set in as agony spiked through his being, flashes of blinding pain surging through his body. He couldn't even breath. He was going to die, actually going to die. Dying to save Ferelden, to save his friends, that was one thing, but meeting his end alone, in a country he had never even visited, for no other reason than to amuse these rogue darkspawn, that was something he could not take. The ones no longer enthralled by the breathing corpse had moved away from the ring, and now that the was nothing else to kill, they had begun to take an interest the cart, their rotten, blackened hand and their jagged blades prodding intrusively at its contents. Alistair tried to croak something along the lines of 'no', but all that left his parted lips was a trickle of vermilion blood that traced the curve of his cheek like a red tear. The foot came down again, again, again, and each time the young man's vision seemed to flicker, to fade...

And everything burst into flame. 

Had he the strength or the willpower to raise his head, the Grey Warden would have been searching frantically for the source of the sudden blaze, but he had neither, and so was left to simply stare as the darkspawn turned in a direction he could not. The fire prowled across the ground in a wide arc, encircling the force, a bright tiger that left death and fire in its wake. Even before it sprung, the ferocious roars and shrieks that seemed the to be the only language the darkspawn possessed turned into the universal screams of terror as a situation that they had held just moments previously rapidly spiralled out of their control. Then the burning feline was upon them, and where skin had been black with corruption, it was now blackened by ravenous fire. 

A thought struck Alistair then, one that he could not quite work out how he had missed; the crushing force upon his chest had completely dissappeared. It was at that moment that a bellowing howl echoed out across the battlefield, all but drowning out the desperate cries of its origin's 'comrades' as they were cooked alive- not that the Warden would have had the stomach to eat them if he had been fed for a year on nothing but rancid mabari meat. In a surge of strength born from sheer determination- coupled with a healthy dose of curiosity- he managed to turn himself slightly towards the source of the huge noise, and his eyes widened in first confusion, then outright disbelief, a little of their previous spark rekindled by a burst of shock. 

From such a powerful fire spell, the Templar had expected several mages, perhaps even an entire platoon of them, but the sight that greeted him was... Somewhat different to the mental image had had drawn up. For stood there, her left arm wreathed in snapping, roaring golden flame, outlined against the mottled blacks and greys of the miniature horde, was a single warrior. Even as Alistair looked on, the fire twisted across her shoulders like a gold serpent, its fluid form proceeding to trickle down her other arm and illuminate the long waraxe she carried in a striking luminescence. The darkspawn, who until now had been shying away from the mage's very presence, seemed to take this as a direct insult to their pride- because of course walking corpses had that too- and suddenly the arm of Hurlocks on the left surged forward with a mutual consent... to be met by a cone of fire so forceful that it stopped them mid stride, incinerating flesh and bone faster than a flame should even take to kindling. And then, in the space of a few seconds, the Hurlocks were gone, consumed by the searing beast that flickered still over the ground, as if reluctant to return to its mistress. 

Alistair knew what came next, cringed away (by every insignificant millimeter he could manage)- though he couldn't have said whether it was the woman who would end up shattered and broken by the end of the next few minutes, or the darkspawn. From what he had seen, there might not be enough of them left to be broken. Like the dark shadow of an army, the creatures came on in a screaming savage horde, a black tide of corruption whose many fingers tore to pieces whatever they found. The woman did not move as she surely should be in a hurry to do, instead standing her ground, right before the raging onslaught. Even as he he tried to rediscover his voice, lost to him in the pounding he had been subject to, the young man could see she would have had no time to move out of the way if he had cried out even seconds earlier. She would be run down and slaughtered, for all her magic. 

She did move, however, though Alistair would not have believed it. 

The horde had been moving fast, charging at full pelt with the intention of crushing the woman beneath them. Opposed to the brutish clomping of heavily armoured boots,   this speed was something other, a sort of flowing, unearthly in its grace. One moment she was stood, unmoving, watching the oncoming wave- then she was 5 feet to the right and still moving. The first few darkspawn had no time to react. The angular head of the blazing axe met the soft skull of a Genlock, and metal won out over bone. As the corpse fell noiselessly, the weapon was already gone, embedding itself deeply into the soft greying throat of a Shriek, who died with a little more volume. Now that the monsters had recovered from their initial state of confusion and disarray, and spurred on by the gushing black blood of their kin, they managed to turn about and face this new enemy. The next few, though, ready or otherwise, stood not a chance. The woman was like a tiny whirlwind- a tiny blazing whirlwind- as she danced through their ranks, elegant and poised as a feline. Putrid flesh parted like soft cheese before the burning silverite blade, black darkspawn blood quickly diluting the ground and flowing to form tiny ink-like lakes, into which corpses fell again and again.

A group of darkspawn this size would have taken, at Alistair's best estimate, thirty minutes for a small regiment to conquer, including heavy losses. In this case, it was more a matter of three minutes, the monstrosities baffled and decimated by the combination of flare bright metal and golden fire that licked with deadly sweetness before suddenly swirling up in a mad frenzy to form a roaring cyclone. In what felt like an incomprehensibly short scuffle- one which had liked far more like a performance routine- only the great Ogre still stood, bellowing its discontent, thick hide charred and pitted with scars. The warrior did not flinch at the booming noise, crouching into a low stance, ready to leap, a position Alistair could only imagine as reminiscent to a cat, readying itself to pounce upon a mouse. A very, very big mouse. 

The goliath beast swung up its unnaturally long, sinuous arm, the fist at the end big enough to put a small building to shame. Even from where he lay prone, some twenty metres off, the Templar could feel the sheer killing intent pouring off that leathery form. From the woman who stood against such might, however, the was nothing. For she was no longer there. 

Lithe and quick as she was, the blow never had a chance of making contact. The Ogre seemed to be having a hard time just keeping track of where the little cat had gone too, let alone hitting her. The fist- whose fingers, Alistair noted with a shudder, must all be at least the size of he himself- crashed down over and over, a frenzy of dirt thrown in every direction from the wild thrashing, never coming less than a full metre from its mark. Then, one time, the hand came up to strike again, and the woman was nowhere to be seen. For a second, the Warden was horrified, believing she had finally missed a step and been flattened like the rest- but then he caught sight of a figure, now high up on the creature's arm. The Ogre had seemingly not yet noticed her, its head turning frantically toys way and that as she stalked stealthily closer. 

Suddenly, just as the warrior mage made it to the higher reaches of the upper arm, the Ogre went very still. Slowly, at a speed that must have even been cautious, the gigantic head turned about. It locked on to its assailant, and for a moment the enormous cat and the miniscule mouse seemed to be attempting to stare each other out. Then the mouth gaped wide, a black hole lined with teeth like swords, from it exploding a mixture of blasting volume and droplets of spittle the size of a fist. Alistair winced. He had to sympathise; Ogre saliva wasn't nice- he should know. The woman stood up straight and, with awe inspiring calm, considering the position she was in, wiped the sticky coating from her face. In a sudden burst of dynamic movement, she drew back her arm thrust it forwards once again in the same instant. From her open-palmed hand erupted a torrent of golden flame that burned brighter than the sun at the height of Solis. The Warden had seen dragonfire on two separate occasions, and this could be compared to nothing less than that. The titanic darkspawn had not even the time to look confused, or whatever passed for such an expression on the ape-like face as golden death flooded its maw, and its head was torn asunder in a vicious explosion of blood and fire. The remainder of the great beast fell as a tall tower; gradually, as though in slow motion, but with the promise of colossal impact. 

Before that had chance to come about, however, Alistair felt a sudden wash of disorientation come over him. His vision swam and blurred, and with what little brain power he could muster, the young man realised he had lost far too much blood to survive. His bones were shattered, his body broken; even if he was able to stand, he would get no more than five paces before he simply died on his feet. Then a presence was beside him. He had not felt it approach, and though he could not the person to which it belonged, it was unmistakable: magic practically sloughed off her body in waves, the mark of a powerful mage. When the voice came, it was strangely mismatched to the almost frightening mass of power, soft like velvet, and warm, if slightly contorted by concern. It reminded Alistair of another, of someone he had been very close to, but as his conciseness began to drain away from him, so did the identity of that person. 

"Hey, hey stay awake. Don't go to sleep. You have to stay awake. Don't-"


	3. The White Fortress

Light filtering dully into Alistair's vision, fragmented and broken, as though reaching him through a thin sheen of water. The feel of a cool air, lapping at his skin and chasing itself playfully through his hair. An irregular clopping of horse's hooves upon hard earth, accompanied by the jolt and bump that came with the movement of a cart along uneven ground. Then, lastly, and least welcome, the scent of... ash? 

The Grey Warden's eyes flickered open, resulting in a groan of dismay as the brightness of day preformed a sudden and unprecedented assault on his light-starved eyes. As he attempted to adjust, he found himself momentarily blinded, and flailed weakly- only to have his right arm caught in a firm grasp. Alistair's vision cleared then through sheer necessity, and he swung around to face his would-be attacker. The person he saw, however, was not quiet the ugly bandit with lank, greasy hair and several missing teeth that he had expected. 

On the rickety wooden bench that was all the comfort afforded to cart drivers sat a woman. Dark shoulder length hair fell neatly over one eye, leaving the gently inquisitive deep brown orb half obscured. Slender of build and average in height, she was the picture of feminine elegance; or would have been, had it not been for the axe slung across her back, as well as the crushing grip with which she held Alistair's wrist. The knight withered somewhat, embarrassed both to have been about to strike a woman, and to have been stopped by her.

"You're awake then." She laughed, in a voice like silver and honey, light and sweet and strong all at once- a voice the young man recognised at once. 

"You," He realised, as his mind, still addled by sleep, finally made the connection, bringing along with it memories of death and golden fire. "You saved me."

The woman released his wrist to hold up her hands in mock surrender. "Yes, that was me." However, Alistair had ceased to listen, for her movement had revealed her chest. Upon the rough leather tunic- an odd garment for a mage- was emblazoned a griffin, worked in fine detail as though captured mid-shriek; a symbol he was all too familiar with. 

"You're... a Grey Warden."

Taken aback, the young woman followed his gaze until her own eyes rested upon the shape of silver thread. When she come across the source of his surprise, a fond smile twitched her lips. "I won't tell if you don't." She proclaimed, gesturing behind them to where the griffin insignia was once again clearly visible upon the front of a familiar rectangle of metal. Beside the shield lay Alistair's sheathed sword, and beside that, a large, unadorned wooden box. The sight of it sent pangs of distress through the knight's entire body.

"I'm... Sorry. About your friend I mean. I hear she was a good." 

"She was." Then the man stiffened, detecting an irregularity. "Hold on... How do you know about her? She was made a Warden after contact was lost with everyone outside Ferelden."

"I'm a Warden. It's only natural that I'm informed of what's going on during a Blight."

"You knew? Weisshaupt knew?! Why didn't they send reinforcements? More Wardens, mages knights? People could have been saved, someone else could have-"

"Men were sent to provide aid. Healers, soldiers. All were turned back at the border. In the end... Only Riordan was allowed to enter Ferelden. I ...don't see him here. Does that mean...?"

The question seemed to hang heavily in the air, laughing at the man cruelly. Alistair shrunk away, suddenly guilty, his anger extinguished like sand on a fire. 

"Riordan... died attempting to slay the Archdemon. We couldn't have killed it without his help."

"That is grave news. I met Riordan once, when he journeyed to the Anderfels. He seemed like a good man. A just man. I only wish the Grey Wardens had more like him."

"They did." Alistair murmured, as much to himself as the woman beside him, before turning away, abashed. His rescuer cast him a look that could have been either been accusatory or inquisitive, but diverted her gaze without a word. The silence that ensued between the two Wardens was thick, not hostile, but uncomfortable, awkward, as though something impolite had been said. Alistair kept his eyes turned away, watching the rugged, stone strewn countryside rumble passed, determined not to say anything more that might offend this woman who had saved him from being ravaged by darkspawn. Then a realisation came to him like a summer storm, so obvious that it had been staring him in the face all this time without raising so much as a flicker of suspicion. This was not the rolling golds and browns of the flat Orlesion countryside; it was harsh and desolate, dry as come, almost charred. It seemed devoid of life, save for the few wiry bushes that poked bravely up from small crevices in the rock. 

Turning back to the woman beside him, Alistair gave her a level stare. She was concentrating so intently on the road that he was afraid that it might burst into flame- which, when he thought about it, was more plausible than it had first sounded.

"We aren't in Orlais anymore, are we?" He asked the side of her head. The Warden seemed relieved at the sudden distraction, and flashed him a grin. "You were asleep a long time.welcome to the Anderfels."

The Anderfels. Alistair looked about him once more with new eyes. He had expected it to be more... beautiful, he supposed, but it would have taken a special grade of idiot to call this 'beautiful'. It looked positively uninhabitable, a land carved from black stone and fire- or at least shaped by it, though it was hard to imagine this land as anything else, green and verdant and throbbing with life, or barren and cold, frozen with a sheen of icy white. 

"It gets better." The young woman informed him, brazenly interrupting his thoughts. Looking back, Alistair saw she was pointing forwards. Directing his attention where she gestured, he realised they were nearing the top of the ridge they had been climbing the whole time he had been awake. Not sure what to expect the Warden craned his neck, trying to a first glance over the top. And then, so suddenly that he wasn't sure how he had missed it, they crested the incline, and Alistair's breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. For there, still some miles from the elevated position they currently occupied, sat a huge fortress, squatting like a sleeping golem upon the side of a mountain. 

Weisshaupt dwarfed any castle Alistair had ever seen, Redcliffe looking like a boy's stick fort in comparison. Even Denerim's royal palace seemed to considerably shrink at the structure's colossal form. Between the journeying Wardens and the mighty fortress were several miles of downwards trekking, and then another similar straight, but up. The horse seemed strong and able, but all the same it did not appreciate the extra weight of a wooden carriage and two fully armoured warriors, and every so often one of them would get off and walk some way out of pity for the poor beast. Just as the steep ascent began to level off, the elegant monstrosity of the colossal fortress truly dawning upon the Ferelden Warden, the woman beside him put out a restraining hand. For a moment she simply stoid there, regarding Weisshaupt's enormous gate, a slight frown playing across her slim face.  
"Before we go in..." She said, almost hesitant as she gave Alistair a sideways glance. "I know you, but you don't know me yet, do you."  
It wasn't a question. The young warrior cast back his mind, and was surprised to discover that he hadn't even considered asking. Feeling foolish, and a little rude- after all, she had saved his sorry rear- he turned fully to face her, putting out a hand.   
"Alistair Therein, previous Templar, Grey Warden of Ferelden."  
"Tarja." She supplied, smiling at his formality, and taking the hand warmly. "Tarja . Previous Circle mage, Grey Warden of the Anderfels."   
Alistair stiffened as he realised that if things had played out differently, he may have had to put this woman down as an abomination. The thought disturbed him, so he directed his attentions instead to the gate before them.   
"Well, my lady Tarja, shall we?"  
"We shall." The mage replied with mock formality, seemingly unaware of the young man's brief displeasure, and led him forwards towards the gaping entry way. It was only when they neared it that Alistair noticed she hadn't yet let go of his hand.


	4. The Grey Wardens

Pillars of white rose from a marble floor so smooth it could have been glass, like the trunks of great trees if ice, soaring up to a vaulted ceiling a hundred feet or more above.   
The entire scene gave Alistair pause, and his steps faltered as he entered in though the great white oak doors. It contrasted so sharply with blasted wastelands he had left behind that it felt like stepping straight into the Golden City. Just... less golden.   
As the Warden's echoing steps ceased to reverberate about the impressive chamber, a chuckle took its place. The noise was soft, but the white walls took it and tossed it about like a child's ball, until it sounded like there were twenty women laughing, rather than just the one.   
"It does that to everyone, on their first time." Tarja smiled, approaching Alistair as the two Grey Wardens who stood guard upon the door, their armour shined to a point where its lack of use was obvious, pulled it closed with a roaring boom that seemed to shake the very stone. The mage's boots clicked upon the white surface as she came forward and quite calmly linked arms with her charge, before leading him onwards through the long entrance hall. The closeness made Alistair feel simultaneously awkward and reassured. A Warden he may be, but this place was alien to him, and it was comforting to know he has at least one friend here.   
The two strolled leisurely down the length of the enormous room. Despite its impressive size and grandeur it wielded, the warrior noted that it was actually rather plain. When he put the query to Tarja, she smiled indulgently, as one might smile at an overly curious child. "The Wardens give up a large portion of their lifespan to serve the order. I suppose the lack of decor is to symbolise sacrifice."  
By then, they had already reached a doorless archway that led deeper into the fortress. Corridors as wide as rooms shot off quite suddenly in both directions, and Alistair was amazed to find that he could not see to the end of either.   
"Just how big is this place?" He marveled softly to himself, not fully expecting a reply.   
"It would take you more than a day to visit all the rooms. Several more to find your way back here."  
Both Wardens turned in surprise at the voice. There must have been hundreds of people within the white fortress, but the intrusion shocked them all the same. The elf who stood before was all but grey and white. He was tall for an elf, and elegant.  His hard eyes were shades of steel, and his long, slicked back hair was pure as snow. He was adorned in a simple tunic, breeches and boots, but the eagle sewn in delicate silver thread high up on his right arm marked him out as a man of some rank; whilst the real eagle perched upon his shoulder just above it just about described his rather unique interests.  
"High Constable Zathwen!" Tarja exclaimed, her voice touched with a subtle note of delight. Alistair felt a stab of unexplainable jealousy, but brushed it away like an irritating insect.   
"It's good to see you again, Tarja." The older Warden replied, a smile just barely detectable upon his lips, the steel of his eyes softening slightly. Alistair found the elf disconcerting, completely unreadable. Even his age; he could have been anywhere from twenty five to forty. "It's been far too long since you were in Weisshaupt. You know the it's hard reign in the First Warden on my own."   
Even as he spoke, the Ferelden warrior knew the High Constable was watching him, reading his every reaction. He felt like he had his thoughts written across his face under that intense gaze.   
"And you must be Alistair Therein," Zathwen continued, turning his face fully towards the younger man for the first time. "The only one living Warden to fight through a Blight. We've heard a lot about you at Weisshaupt." He cast his gaze about them in what seemed an almost theatrical gesture. "I see neither Warden-Commander Duncan nor Senior Warden Riordan. Do I take it..."  
"Dead." Alistair replied bluntly. "I'm sorry." He added straight after, instantly feeling guilty for his abrupt response. Riordan had seemed a good man, and his death was sad, but the Warden-Commander had been like a father to him, and he refused to think about that man's death right now.   
The High Constable nodded, accepting the statement without emotion. If he was saddened by their passing, he didn't show it. "'In death, sacrifice'. That is the most important line of the oath. There are few exceptions to whom this is not true. Riordan and Duncan made the biggest sacrifice, to stop the greatest threat. They died well. Would that we could all die with equal valor. However... I don't think it is them we have to thank for stopping the Blight. Is it?"  
Alistair started. He had been so overwhelmed with all this that he had almost forgotten went he was here in the first place. A wash of guult hit him. "That's why I'm here... sir," He confirmed, realising for the first time that he had no idea how to address Zathwen. "The remains of Warden Lyna are in my care. We left her... them, in the courtyard."  
"They are calling her the Hero of Ferelden." Zathwen murmured, looking of at something distant that Alistair could not see. His voice was soft, thoughtful. "A Dalish elf, no less. I imagine none of them saw that coming."   
"Where you Dalish?"  
Alistair froze as he realised he had spoken out of turn. Duncan had never been so strict, and Lyna had been as much his friend as she ever had his superior. But this was Weisshaupt, this was the High Constable. Maker, had he just questioned the High Constable? Hard eyes swung towards him, and in that moment the young warrior knew that that gaze was many times more terrifying than a Hurlock's axe. The elf stared at him for what felt like several ages, and by the time he finally moved, Alistair thought they might be in the Stone Age, or something similar.   
The flicker of a smile that touched Zathwen's lips was not the reaction the Warden had expected. Averting his gaze a little, the taller man partly turned away before answering. "I was a city elf. A slums elf, from the Alienage in Kirkwall. Perhaps I would have joined the Dalish, given time, but the Maker chose me for the Wardens. Does that answer your question?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned fully around so that he was facing away down one of the long corridors. Gesturing for them to follow, he began to make his way towards a grand staircase.   
"Come. I think now would be a good time for you to meet the First Warden."  
\----------------------------------------------  
Alistair hadn't even known so many stairs existed. After the sixth flight, there was sweat running down into his eyes, and he had to remove his gauntlet to wipe it away. Every time they reached a new landing, he felt a wave of relief that they had reached the top- just before they began to climb the next. The worst thing was, neither Tarja nor Zathwen seemed in the slightest affected by the ascent.   
As they neared an enormous door, which must have been at least as large as the entrance, and flanked by two Grey Wardens, the mage touched his arm lightly. Alistair stopped, blinking sweat away from his eyes, and looked to her.   
"The First Warden is a little... eccentric. Please don't mind her." Tarja murmured close to his ear, so that no one else could hear. The man shivered as her warm breath brushed his skin, but nodded. The demand Warden, seeming satisfied by the response, took his arm once again, and led him forwards.   
The room must have filled the entire top section of the tower. It was a single circular space, wide and open, its walls lined with bookcases, weapons, pieces of armour, and all manner of strange items besides. The centre of the room was just as cluttered. Stacks of papers rose up to Alistair's waist, filling the space until it looked like a white lake, with a single small island; a desk, pushed towards the back of the room. Behind it, a solitary figure bent almost double, peering at the letters and documents slung there as though in careless irritation. As the three Wardens entered, the gust of wind that accompanied the massive thoom of the closing door behind them scattering papers in every direction, she straightened. Blonde hair that might have been soft once, but was now lank and messy with lack of washing, fell almost to her waist, and green eyes that could have been carved from jade glinted with excitement. She couldn't have been less than forty, but in her childish elation, she looked much younger. The clothes she wore were almost the same as the High Constable's, with two major differences- the eagle upin her arm was gold, not silver, and the attire itself looked about as well cared for as a beggar's.  
"Zathwen! Tarja! It's good you're here, I've worked out how we can gain more land in Orlais!"   
"We don't need more land in Orlais, Reiyna." Zathwen muttered in a tone that suggested they had been here before. The eagle perched upon his shoulder squawked in what sounded like agreement (which Alistair found more a little worrying, but decided better than to voice his opinion because of the look the bird was giving him).  
"You're so boring..." Reiyna murmured, but her voice had lost some of its vehemence, probably because her gaze had fallen across Alistair. "And who is this?" She inquired, her voice juddering irregularly as she fairly bounced through the papers, tossing them this way and that carelessly. The warrior thought he detected a slight movement from his side, as though Tarja intended to move in front of him, but she seemed to rethink the reaction and stayed as she was- though he felt her tighten a little about his.   
"This is Alistair Therein, the only surviving Grey Warden of Ferelden." Zathwen stated loudly, but the First Warden seemed only to be half listening. She was far too busy inspecting him from every angle, as closely as possible, with caused both him and Tarja to shift uncomfortably.   
"Therein?" Reiyna grinned, staring into Alistair's eyes at a distance that made him squirm. "Then you must be Maric's rumoured bastard. Not so much a rumour afte-."  
Before she could even finish her sentence, the great door crashed open, scattering yet more papers. Three of four of them jumped on shock, and the eagle screamed its displeasure, flapping great grey wings. High Constable Zathwen simply turned his head to look over the most recent arrival.   
Through the door stumbled a Warden. His armour was tarnished and dirty, and he sweating heavily, his breath coming in irregular bursts. On a normal day he might have been handsome, but with his blue eyes wild and blonde hair plastered to his forehead, he simply looked desperate.   
"F-First Warden..." he stuttered, hardly able to even force the words from his throat. "Darkspawn... There are darkspawn attacking Val Royeaux!"


	5. Orlesian Corpses

Alistair had never seen so many Grey Wardens in one place. They looked quite magnificent, a living column of silver and blue, undulating across the land on their hardened mounts. These were no fancy Orlesian coursers, nor bold Ferelden chargers, but Anderfels horses, stout and sturdy, sure footed and determined. Also, they had wills of iron, and every time Alistair tried to mount his, it insisted on trying to tear off his arm in its mouth.   
Weisshaupt's stables were the largest Alistair had ever seen- which had become something of a trend by now- row upon row of spacious holding areas, much too large to have been designed with horses's in mind. The stables were also multistoried, which the Warden had found surprising, until Tarja had informed him, with a knowing smile, that the building had been constructed to house Weisshaupt's griffins, in ages passed. Alistair wished he could have been around to see one of the magnificent beasts in the flesh, but they had ceased to exist in Ferelden long before he was even born.   
It occurred to the warrior then that he had only ever seen a more than a few Wardens in one place at a time. That had been at Ostagar- not a particularly pleasant memory to behold, but Duncan had been there, as had Lyna. That had been one of the last times... Alistair's mood darkened as fast as a summer storm as he realised, of the Wardens present that day, all but one were now dead. He forced himself to stop there, unwilling to relive the deaths of those people he had held closest in the world, despite how short a time he had known them. They were his friends, better friends than he had ever made as a child- not that his childhood had been one particularly suited to forming friendships.  
In an effort to take his mind from thoughts that were rapidly descending into morbid depression, Alistair cast brown eyes about him, trying to place their exact location on the map Tarja had shown him the previous evening.   
The force was around five hundred strong, and though they were no more than the vanguard of the main force, another two thousand Wardens, such a large group did not move quickly. High Constable Zathwen, who had accompanied the forward force, had opted for a more direct route, straight South from Weisshaupt, through perilous mountain passes coated with thick coverings of fresh fallen snow. They had since descended from the peaks, with only a single accident in which several supplies had toppled off the narrow track, but no one had been injured, and Alistair was convinced that this was due to the steadfastly unflinching nature of their mounts. From the foothills, the Wardens had deviated from their course slightly to rest near Perendale, though the inhabitants did not appreciate such a large armed group camping nearby, and they moved on swiftly. That had been the day before, and now they rode upon solid ground, a wide, well maintained road between Ghislain and Montford. The journey had, so far, taken a little under a week, and as they reached flat lands and easy riding and began to make even better time, Alistair found himself impressed by the Wardens determination. Perhaps they had inherited the trait from their horses.   
Glancing at the sky, the young man realised that dark was quickly setting in, and before long the procession would grind to a halt. He didn't look forward to the hassle of setting up and taking down the small three person tent whose pieces were currently split between his and Jenner's saddles. At least the Wardens had good ale.   
\-----  
The men and women of Weisshaupt seemed to the Ferelden to be cold, hard people, nothing akin to Duncan or Riordan.   
However, as in all groups, there were exceptions- and these were the people to whom Alistair radiated. Had he not been a part of the 'Hero of Ferelden''s effort to stem the Blight, he could have claimed to never have seen such a uniquely diverse group, but little could top a shapeshifting apostate working alongside a Circle mage, an ex-assassin and and an imprisoned Qunari. Aside from himself and Tarja- who, Alistair had come to realise, was known by practically everyone in Weisshaupt, and so could fit into practically any group amongst them- the first two people you would see upon approaching the small campfire were Bec and Jenner. The pair were uncannily similar for two people so utterly different. Jenner claimed to be Dalish, and he certainly had the right markings, but his manner was so at odds with the Dalish Alistair had met previously that he found it hard to compute. Where as most elves he had met were soft-spoken, everything about them serene and graceful, Jenner was raucous and jovial, derogatory jokes rolling off his tongue every time he opened his mouth. Apparently he had been a skilled hunter within his clan, able to fell a bear with a single arrow (according to himself), however that life had lacked in the excitement he sought, and he had been swamped in piety more than he could stomach. He had gladly traded that life for this.  
Bec's story was a little different. He was fresh out of Orzammar, a 'surface dwarf' for no more than a year or so. He had picked a fight with some noble- when he was piss drunk, of course- and had landed himself in the Dead Legion trying to win back his honour in a glorious death. The squad he was with had encountered a Grey Warden, descended to the Deep Roads to answer her Calling, and Bec had figured that living twenty five years to fight darkspawn was better than living twenty five weeks to fight darkspawn. He had gotten himself conscripted and was sent over to the Anderfels the next day. The elf and the dwarf were closer to being brothers than any blood relatives Alistair had seen, what with the dispensing of rowdy jokes seemingly at random, and the constant cock waving (metaphorically so far, thank the Maker). He had to admit that, despite their noise and the fact that Bec was practically a criminal, it was good to have them around- without them the whole group would have seemed much darker.   
The third member of their party incited first worry, then curiosity, then outright incredulouty upon sight. The figure sat upon a fallen tree trunk, hunched, head bowed, silent and solemn. It was so large that a person could be forgiven for wondering just how they had missed it in the beginning. However, the silver-grey skin, the hunched posture, all helped to keep the form from curious eyes in the dull light of the fire.   
Vas had taken Alistair completely by surprise. After fighting the Archdemon, the young man could have said honestly he had seen everything there was to see. But a Qunari Warden was not something he had even considered plausible. That wasn't, however, the thing that had shocked Alistair the most. It was undoubtedly the fact that she was female. The warrior had never even heard of anyone who had seen a female Qunari, let alone seen one himself. Vas was quiet most of the time, but in one of the few conversations he had managed to hold with the huge woman, he had been told that, if a female showed enough skill at fighting, and showed a genuine interest in it, by the Qun they could be considered male, and be allowed to join the military. The Qunari was no long of that religion, though. 'Vas' was a title, shortened from 'Tal-Vashoth'. The woman refused to take a name, and still firmly believed in the Qun. She had apparently been expelled because of a mishap- one she refused to share the details of- which had involved a city official, a table, and a fish, and at that point Alistair had decided he probably didn't want to know anyway.  
As though she felt his gaze across the fire, Vas raised her face a little, and the young man snapped away sharply. He found it hard to meet her strange violet eyes, and the horns that curled back from her brow didn't exactly help the image of cuddly friendliness. As a whole, the Qunari was an intimidating sight, and Alistair caught himself writing a mental check to stick to women under a head taller than him.   
Tarja sat a little way off. In the flickering lick of the firelight, her face appeared tired and drawn. During the day, the mage put on the facade of carefree confidence, but Alistair knew she was concerned. Throughout the week, the warrior had stuck close by her side, faithful puppy style. He judged this the best way to learn what he could of Weisshaupt's Wardens- plus, since it turned out she was a Senior Warden, and one of very high regard, she got to know everything that went on. Word of the siege on Val Royeaux reached the vanguard by way of raven, each night when they stopped to set up camp, and with every report Tarja seemed to become more and more subdued. Glancing at her now, slim form partially in darkness, gazing deeply into the fire as though the flickering flames might hold the key to ending the horrific situation, Alistair was on the verge of asking her why this attack effected her so deeply. Perhaps it was the huge amount of people trapped within Orlais' capital by a host of nightmare creatures that bothered her, or maybe she was like this with all darkspawn attacks. If anyone felt so strongly, it was the Wardens, and you didn't progress far through their ranks by believing anything other than utter eradication of the darkspawn. Before the young warrior had a chance to act upon the thought, however, a man approached Tarja. They exchanged a few words, and the mage rose from the rock upon which she had been restlessly perched. Casting weary eyes about for Alistair, she gestured for him to join her, before making her way towards the High Constable's tent. The daily report must have finally arrived.   
\--------------------------------------  
Zathwen's command tent was of little difference to the rest of the Grey Warden tents; small, crafted from a variety of animal hides, built for shelter and warmth over comfort. The only visible difference was the flag flying from the main pole- a silver eagle, its wings outstretched, upon a field of royal blue. Alistair was glad they had managed to get an eagle; if they'd been left with a squid or a flower it wouldn't have inspired much valour in the troops. Oo, here come the Golden Squids. Scary.   
The High Constable was visible before his tent, along with another man who looked to be a Chevalier. The two exchanged worried glances, and quickened their pace. Zathwen's eagle, Hetha, was in her usual spot upon his shoulder, and she gave a piercing shriek as the pair drew near, and glared at Alistair with vicious yellow eyes. Alistair stuck out his tongue.   
"Tarja, Alistair," The elf greeted them, absently petting the great bird. It made a strange purring noise and fell quiet. "It's good that you're here. Since the message hasn't come by raven today, I'd say it's of some importance." He cast his eyes towards the messenger, who quailed under the steel gaze, and in that moment the young warrior knew it was true that dogs- and eagles- were very much like their masters. "Speak."  
The man bowed, straightened, and began to reel off a list of things that had occurred within the last day, and thing that were too detailed to write down on paper. His memory was impressive, Alistair decided, but listening to accounts of how Hurlocks had breached the wall and swarmed the Alienage, killing dozens of elves before the Chevaliers managed to repel them, soon became depressing. The Warden tuned out, and instead began to look the man over more carefully. The fine cloth beneath his armour was damp in places. Sweat. Either he was had been riding hard, or he was very, very nervous.   
"Also, we have lost all contact with a group of Chevaliers in the East. We can only assume they are dead. " With these words, the messenger fell silent, but his fingers were twitching, as though they wanted to be elsewhere- probably a lucky amulet or charm- and it felt like he had more to say. Zathwen obviously noticed it too, because he gestured for the man to continue. "And...?"   
"And..." he continued, in a voice that was barely more than a frightened whisper. "And... The darkspawn have siege engines. "  
"What?!" Zathwen roared, causing everyone, even Tarja, to jump in shock. Several Wardens in the area around them turned sharply to stare at the enraged High Constable, and several physically backed away. Hetha, equally surprised by the outburst, shrieked, and flapped over to land on Tarja's shoulder, giving her master a look of intense disapproval. "How?! How could the darkspawn gave siege equipment?" Zathwen yelled in the poor messenger's face, grabbing him none too gently. Alistair could almost see foam forming at the corners of his mouth. It would have been funny, had it not been so terrifying. The Orlesian, who sounded close to tears in fear (his clothes had acquired a new wet patch), cowered, and replied quickly, "They were being moved. Out of Val Royeaux, along a route we had been told would be empty. We thought if we could get them to a ridge behind the darkspawn and bombard them, we might be able to thin them out enough so that the Chevaliers could take care of them. B-But... It was crawling with them..."   
Tarja, who by then had managed to regain some composure, gently separated the two, giving Zathwen a slight push. The High Constable continued to stare daggers, longswords, axes and lots of other pointy metal implements at the Chevalier as though the man was responsible, but backed away all the same. Another Warden moved quickly closer to lead the unfortunate Chevalier away to get a new horse for the return journey. And probably a clean set of clothes.   
With the immediate threat of a full scale Warden-Chevalier conflict averted, the air seemed a little cooler about them, instead of the feeling you got before a huge storm broke out- though everyone was obviously deep in thought. High Constable Zathwen, who had reverted from rabid dog to simply rabid nug, stalked off towards his tent, and Tarja, clearly distressed by the news, followed suit. Even Hetha knew something was amiss, with the animal instinct that Alistair envied, and was producing peculiar croaking mewls from atop Tarja's shoulder. As the two Wardens entered the tent, she had to flap off and sit upon a pile to avoid having her head knocked in, which upset her even more. As the warrior moved to follow the Tarja and Zathwen, he expected the bird to attack him or do something equally evil, but Hetha just gave a mournful caw. Alistair almost felt obliged to stroke her, but he valued his fingers, and so he simply ducked through the hide flap.  
Within, the twitched Wardens were already poring over a map Orlais, one of the few things they had brought along. They were deep in discussion, pointing out possible places the siege weapons could now be; where the darkspawn could use them again Val Royeaux for the greatest effect. Alistair was no tactician, and he simply listened as they formulated a plan- scouts would be sent immediately. They would begin scouting at dawn, when there was enough light to see, and by the time the full vanguard arrived, they should have located the missing catapults.   
"The vanguard's vanguard." Alistair mused to himself. Both Tarja and Zathwen turned to give him a hard glare. "Right. Serious situation. Got it."   
"We'll need to send small task forces to disable the catapults. They're the biggest threat right now. You'll need to be fast and efficient. Kill everything before they know you're there and fire." The High Constable informed Tarja, all but ignoring the tent's third occupant.   
"Can I choose who I take?"  
"You know the men better than I do."  
Tarja didn't reply, simply turning to the young man now standing quietly by the tent's entrance.   
"I suggest you get some sleep, Alistair. You have an important job."  
"I do?"  
"Yes. Staying alive long enough for you and I to have a serious conversation about duty and relationships." She wasn't smiling.   
Alistair felt heat rush to face as he realised what she meant. Unsure quite how to respond to such a blunt statement, he gave an awkward salute, and muttered an almost unintelligible "Yes, ma'am," before quickly escaping from the close space, thankful, for once, for the dark that cloaked the fierce blush that raged upon his cheeks.


	6. Staff and Bloody Blade

Dawn was a pale mist, its tendrils of thick fog low to the ground like a hunting cat, curling about a motley collection of leather boots, metal greaves and the legs of restless horses that wickered and whinied quietly into the dim morning light. They could sense it, too, Alistair mused, watching a horse paw at the damp ground nervously and toss its head. He found it odd that the Maker had chosen humans to build vast cities, to form armies and wield magic, when Thedas' beasts seemed so much more in touch with the world around them. People said animals could sense catastrophes before they happened. Alistair just hoped this wasn't one of them.   
Though the Grey Wardens had waited for darkness to seep back into the sky to begin their attack, it was hardly any clearer now, with the dense, low cloud allowing vision no more than a few feet in any direction before a dull nothingness engulfed all like some colossal formless creature. The tents had been packed, the fires smothered, the horses watered, all in silence- or perhaps it was simply the fog dampening the sound of hushed conversations. The forming up was a sullen, joyless process; every one of them knew the reports, knew the numbers and strength of their foe, and every one of them knew that this could be their final march, that it could be they whom the Blight took sooner rather than later.  
Alistair stood off to one side, away from the other Wardens. Beside him, Vas stood, arms loose by her sides, as though she was utterly at ease with the upcoming battle. It wouldn't have surprised the young man; from what he had seen of Qunari, they didn't hesitate to crush darkspawn skulls with their bare hands. A huge but deceptively slender greatsword was strapped across the woman's broad back, a blade Bec referred to, almost reverently, as Blightsbane. It was one of the few things Alistair had noted the dwarf to talk about seriously, and he hoped that wasn't for nothing. The Orzammaran was a little way away, two long, wicked blades sheathed upon his own, significantly smaller back, helping Jenner string a tall, elegant longbow with whirling patterns up and down its length.   
And Tarja. She stood with her back to all of them, peering off into the fog as though that might help her catch a glimpse of the enemy that waited unseen within. He couldn't see her face, but Alistair knew she would still be harboring that dark, brooding expression. He didn't know if they knew the Wardens' own strength, or if they even knew they existed- did darkspawn communicate like that?- but he didn't envy the Hurlock who stood in the mage's way today. The axe that she had wielded that first time still adorned her back, fresh from the whetstone, but the young warrior sincerely doubted she needed such a crude weapon to lay waste to a small horde.   
The scouts had returned earlier that morning, bloodied but, on the most part, alive. Their reports were grim, but not without hope. It seemed that the catapults were primed and loaded, but had yet to be fired. That meant that the darkspawn were either waiting for something big, or even they couldn't aim in the dark. And that meant there was still time.   
As though guided by some signal that the rest of her small party could not interpret, Tarja turned her head to glance back. As she gestured them wordlessly forwards, Bec and Jenner joining them with a silent solemnity previously unheard of from the pair, she locked eyes with Alistair. She still wore the look of quiet agitation that had shadowed her elegant features since the previous evening, but her eyes told a different story entirely. The brown orbs an intensity the likes of which the warrior had never seen, and they spoke of defiance and vengeance. He found himself wondering how many had gazed at those eyes, instants before their flesh was scorched from blackened bones.   
Tarja began to walk, moving into the creeping mist at a brisk stride, the motley group following closely behind. They made no attempt to be quiet; the fog did that for them- but Alistair couldn't help but feel he was making too much noise, the hardened steel plates of his armour clanking like an entire platoon as he trudged through the dew soaked grasses of a concealed meadow, having to try hard to keep up with his more lightly armoured companions.   
It could have been little more than an hour before they hit the ridge- almost literally, in fact, as it loomed intimidatingly out of the mist no more than a metre from Alistair's face, forcing him to dodge to one side to avoid having his face forcibly remodeled by an inconvenient spine of yellow brown rock. After dismissing it as karma for his terribly timed jokes, the young man noticed that everyone else had also stopped, and were staring grimly down at something by their feet, which had apparently nearly toppled Bec. From the pained expressions plastered upon their faces, it was probably not pleasant.   
A young woman. Dwarvish. Pretty, once. People tended to lose some of their inherent attractiveness when they had their heads cleaved in two. She wore light leather, dyed a lustrous blue, with the insignia of an eagle upon the breast. One of the few scouts who hadn't made it back. The wound had obviously killed her outright, but the signs of mutilation and pointless hurting were clear, written in blood upon her broken form. Alistair hoped they had happened after she had died. He feared that they hadn't.   
With a determination born from anger and pride, Bec, Jenner and Vas took wordlessly to the face of the ridge, making their painstaking path up the way the scout had come down. Even as Alistair made to follow, he felt a restraining hand grasp at his own. Wondering whether this was really the time for a heart to heart, he turned- and was caught full in the face. Her lips were soft, sweet, they tasted of cherries- or was he just imagining that? His heart quickened until he thought he could feel his armour moving with the pounding of his chest, except he no longer knew whether it was his own heartbeat or Tarja's. For several moments that was his entire being, her hot lips pressed to his own, the sporadic frenzy of his heart, until he felt the tips of her fingers brush upon the back of his head, the length of her slim body pressed upright against his own. His hands- Maker, he didn't know where to put his hands. It didn't matter anyway; his whole body was in a panicked mess, and his arms just hung stupidly by his sides.   
Then the moment was passed. The young woman broke off, quickly turning away. It may have simply been the red orange sunrise that threatened to burn away the fog, but Alistair thought he saw a crimson hue briefly touch her cheeks.   
"Be careful." The mage muttered bluntly, before moving to the ridge and beginning to haul herself up.   
\------------------------------------------------  
"Shit,"  
Several rocks and a flurry of smaller stones went tumbling from under Alistair's foot to cascade back down the face of the ridge. The Warden grabbed at a weedy sapling to try and steady himself, before it uprooted itself and glew in pursuit of the fallen rocks. He cursed again, sliding backwards several feet before he was able to catch hold of a ledge to cut short his descent. Glancing back, he grimaced. It would have been a long slide, and a long, grueling climb back up. As they neared the top, that distance only grew.  
The ridge's face was, thankfully, not vertical, but it was close enough that they had to scramble rather than walk. This would have been all well and good, had he not been wearing clothes made from forged metal that effectively doubled his weight. The others, who had long since passed him, were faring far better. Tarja and Jenner, lightly armoured and quick on their feet, scaled the rock with ease, and even Bec navigated the face as though he had done it a dozen times before; however, he could hear Vas laboring and grunting with annoyance as her weight caused the rickety to buckle and crumble. Alistair felt almost sorry for bringing her- or was it him?- on a task so obviously unsuited for her, but they would need the support of the towering qunari warrior in the coming hours.   
Beginning to haul himself back up once more, the young man started as the top suddenly came into view over a large step of rock. The sky before him was aflame with the still rising sun and silhouetted starkly against it, the giant arm of a catapult reached forbidingly up into the morning air. Right where the scouts had reported it to be. Alistair scrambled a little further, and another arm appeared, and another. Three catapults. That meant three times the darkspawn. Grimacing, the young Warden moved up to join the rest of his party, all of whom were now concealed behind a small soil cliff, the rest of which seemed to have fallen down the ridge's face to rest somewhere hear the bottom.   
Alistair glanced over at Tarja, a better or so along, and received a shallow nod. Cautiously, he half stood, and peered over the rim, then abruptly ducked back down. Through the thin, straggly copse of trees that were all that had managed to survive in the poor soil, about the bases of the three great siege engines, several dozen darkspawn milled aimlessly, as though quite unsure what they were doing. The group was close enough that Alistair could make out the wrinkles and tears of their half rotted flesh. Looking at Tarja's worried frown, he guessed she had also taken a brief look over the edge. A glance was exchanged through the group before, by some unspoken consensus, all began to move. Tarja and Jenner darted left and right, running low to the ground so that the dirt cliff still concealed them. The elf already had a goose fought arrow knocked to his bow. Even as they reached their positions either side of the small, Bec vaulted up onto higher ground, and vanished; not because had moved into cover, but by some obscure skill apparently not shared with front line warriors. And then it was their turn. Alistair glance at Vas, but the qunari was utterly focused, her purple eyes bright with the fury of battle as she surged up and over the low rise, a harsh rasp of steel on leather accompanying the sight of Blightsbane being torn bodily from its sheath. The Warden had half expected the Tal-Vashoth to issue some guttural, ferocious battle cry, but Vas charged in a silence broken only by the pounding of metal boots on hard packed earth. Alistair quickly leapt up and followed her lead, suppressing the urge to let loose the roar behind his lips as he hefted his longsword in his grip. It was peculiar following the silver skinned giant into battle, but it was still comforting to know she was on their side.   
They broke the trees at a run, and by the time the darkspawn had turned to face down their attackers with rasping rattles and blood screams screams, the two warriors were already amongst them. Blightsbane swung in a red arc, the bloid crimson sun making it appear as though it was aflame. A Hurlock was cloven from skull to stomach mid roar, the creatures to either side scattered by soundless fury. Alistair smashed into the ragged line am instant later, shield braced against his shoulder as he brazenly rammed darkspawn from his path. As the Blight stricken monstrosities finally began to move with some semblance of order, a hail of arrows and golden fire poured from their flanks, instantly sending them crashing back into disarray. Just when Alistair thought Just when Alistair thought they might make it through the encounter unscathed, an eerie green flame flickered into life in the corner of his vision. Ending his charge with a vicious swipe of his longsword that turned an oncoming Genlock's neck into a ragged stump, the ex-Templar spun to track the source of the ethereal blaze, immediately recognising it as magic so deeply twisted and corrupt that it would break a human mage to even try to tame it. With horror, he realised that a line of darkspawn emissaries had formed at the foot of the closest catapult. They knew why the Wardens were here, and they knew that such a small group would have trouble dealing with a magical bombardment. Alistair was aware that they would be cut down instantly by such a barrage, but no one was close enough to do anything about it. Vas and he were now swamped, fighting back to back in the midst of the group of Hurlocks their charge had carried them into. Tarja and Jenner had Shrieks and Genlocks closing on them fast, so even their support was limited.  
The magical bombardment, however, never came. A flicker of movement became visible just behind the line, and Bec phased into being, and began laying into the emissaries with merciless efficiency. The group scattered, unable to fight at such close quarters with no warriors to take the knives for them.   
Alistair was brought sharply back to his own fight as a darkspawn's sword caught him in the shoulder, glancing off his plated armour and leaving a deep gash in the metal. An arrow ricocheted off his shield, forcing him backwards a step, but before his attacker could move in to fill the gap, the warrior surged forward and delivered a powerful diagonal cut to its exposed side, felling it. As another went to take its place, it was mown down by a blaze of golden fire, along with several of others. Tarja, axe unsheathed and burning, advanced over the decimated corpses, hacking down Hurlocks and Genlocks alike as she tore her way towards the desperately fighting warriors. The action won Alistair a little breathing space and, taking a swift glance over his shoulder, he Jenner and Bec had also joined them.   
Darkspawn were all around them now, and a loose ring formed, each Warden back to back with the other four, blades coated in black blood and intense blasts of blazing magic cutting down any who got too near, only to have another three take its place. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours, but after a period of time, Alistair caught a glimpse of Hurlock. It was bigger than the rest, and the huge axe it carried marked it out as an Alpha, a huge creature head and shoulders above even Vas. Despite the obvious advantage it would provide the darkspawn, however, it was nowhere near the centre of the battle, instead heading towards...  
The catapults.   
Unless it meant to reposition them- on its own- to face the five Wardens, there could only be one thing reason for it to be headed there; it meant to fire the catapults before they could take them. If it managed to loose a rock, even one, it would mean that all those was for nothing; the vanguard fighting the main bulk of the darkspawn upon the plains far below, the other small groups that had gone to capture the other six catapults stationed in various positions; everyone who had fallen today would have died for nothing. The wall would be breached, and darkspawn would flood Val Royeaux, destroying anything and everything they found. Anyone still in the city would die.  
This all raced through the young Warden's adrenaline augmented brain within the time it took him to decapitate a Hurlock, and in that brief moment he realised that he was the only one who had seen the imminent disaster. Only he could stop it. And so he did something to make swordsmen all over Thedas cringe.  
He threw his sword.  
The blade passed through the ranks of darkspawn unmolested, carving a blood red arc through the air. It turned over and over, catching the brilliant light of the sun so that it looked like some holy sword dragged straight from a Chantry tale. Thousands of lives weighed heavy upon that sword, upon that split second, and the whole world seemed to take a moment to watch its lazy course, a brief instant of total serenity that seemed to stretch for eternity.   
The noise of metal rending metal was audible even from the midst of the rabidly attacking darkspawn as the sword impaled the Hurlock Alpha's skull, helmet and all. With a keening roar that spiralled into something of a grumbling whimper, it slumped forward, and died, its path cut violently short.   
The noise gave everyone pause, even the Hurlocks and Genlocks still alive, and several even turned to look at their fallen commander in what seemed almost like disbelief- if darkspawn could feel such things. The Wardens snatched at the opportunity to launch a frenzied counter attack, laying into the creatures with a rekindled ferocity. Tarja, though, hesitated just a moment too long, brown eyes upon the slumped form, and Hurlock reared up behind her, sword held aloft. The mage, oblivious to the threat, made no move to defend herself, and Alistair's eyes grew wide as, for the second time that day, time seemed to hit some impossible barrier, and slow to a treacle like crawl. The blade rose, and fell, and the warrior knew that, even if she saw it coming, Tarja was going to die.   
Then some base instinct, some age old primal emotion, sent Alistair's brain into an adrenaline flooded frenzy, something deeper than fear, more ancient than petty self preservation, and he began to push through the thick treacle, his entire being devoted to stopping that blade reaching its mark. The sword fell, and Alistair pushed. He didn't know if he made it.  
White, screaming pain, like molten metal searing into his chest.   
Then... nothing.


	7. Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens

Light was pain.   
It seared Alistair's pupils the moment he cracked open his eyelids, scouring, purifying, burning like white fire through his head. He closed his eyes again quickly, willing the blazing agony from behind his eyeballs as he tried to recall where he was. Thoughts moved at the sluggish pace thoughts do when one wakes from a deep slumber.  
Deep as death.   
Alistair almost cried out as someone suddenly pulled the stopper on his bottled memories, and they came pouring out like water from a burst dam.   
Endless waves of darkspawn. A Hurlock Alpha, dead. Fighting in a ring, back to back. A sword, falling. Then...   
Darkness.   
Alistair moved instinctively to press the heels of his hand to his still closed eyes in an attempt to alleviate some of the confusion the jumbled memories brought. When he tried, however, a sensation he imagined later must have been something like having an arm torn clean from your shoulder, exploded through his torso. This time, he did cry out. His head swum, and for a brief moment he fell into unconsciousness. Pain coursed through him in waves, dull throbbing and sharp agony in turn, and this pain brought not confusion but clarity.   
A sword, jagged- darkspawn- falling towards Tarja, his own body in the way, the blade passing through plate metal, down, through flesh, through bone. Jubilation, followed an instant later by screaming agony. Blood- his blood- coating the blade. A voice- his? No, Tarja's- calling out, shouting his name...  
Alistair was drenched in sweat, from physical or mental pain he did not know. His back arched, and when it did he screamed. Skin tore, and the pain was such that he was amazed his stomach did not simply fall out. His torso felt warm, wet, and a fresh gush of blood covered him as the delicate scar reopened.   
The door banged against the wall, and someone rushed through it. They knelt beside the bed, but through the red haze of agony before his eyes, the man could not tell who it was. When relief came, it was sudden to the point of shock. The pain vanished like someone dumping a pale of water into a fireplace, and he was left shaking, staring blankly at the ceiling, breath coming in shallow, irregular bursts.   
"Alistair?"  
The voice was small and worried, but it still surprised the Warden. Slowly, as any quick movement brought with it a stab of pain, he turned his head to the side. A flood of relief washed over him as he saw Tarja's anxious face peering at him, and in that moment the pain was worth it. She looked unharmed, weary and concerned, but unscathed, and for that he would have taken a darkspawn blade a dozen times more. He managed a weak smile, before finally mustering the courage to glance down at his chest.   
The entire of his torso was a mess of blood, too fresh even to have congealed, and it was slowly seeping into the white(ish) sheets of the bed upon which he lay, staining them a dirty crimson. He realised, for the first time, that he was naked, but didn't have the sense to feel embarrassed.   
"Alistair," Tarja said again. Her voice was still soft, but more urgent than before. "How do you feel?"   
"Like someone should be putting an apple in my mouth and serving me in a banquet," The man replied, grimacing. "But I seem to have most of my limbs, and my charming good looks, so better than I could have been. Which I imagine I have you to thank for."  
The mage nodded, seemingly satisfied by the response, but the worry was still obvious on her strained expression.   
"Did... Did we win?"  
It was an open question. The number of dead, of wounded, assets and supplies lost, how the battle had actually played out; it was hard to see it so clean cut as to 'win' or 'lose'. Tarja was silent for a long while, gazing down at her hands, and the slowly dissipating green sparks of magic there, fluttering like tiny fireflies, flitting off and fading to nothing in just seconds.  
"We... retook the catapults." She said finally. "None fired. The walls of Val Royeaux remain intact."  
"Good. Maybe all those deaths weren't for nothing after all." Alistair murmured, with a soft smile. He paused. "Where are the others? Maybe we can share a drink. You know, celebratory, or..." He tailed off as Tarja looked up. With a touch of horror, he saw that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. As he watched, unsure what to say, a single teardrop slipped down her cheek to fall from her chin into her lap.   
"Alistair..." She said, in a voice barely more than a whisper, almost inaudible over badly concealed chokes of grief. "Jenner... didn't come back."  
It took Alistair a moment to realise what she meant. He hadn't even considered the fact that they might not all get out alive. They had all seemed so strong.   
"And Bec? Vas?"  
"Bec almost went mad. He went wild and killed everything that came close, and when it was over... He wouldn't come back with us. He said he was going to the Deep Roads to... to..." She didn't have to finish the sentence. "Vas carried you back here. Over her shoulder. I don't know how she did it. She... They tore her arm off. Her left arm. Right up at the shoulder. And, her jaw. It's crushed. She won't talk again..." The young woman didn't continue. She looked as though any more words might push her over the edge, and she dropped her face once more, refusing to meet Alistair's gaze. Alistair, ignoring the white hot pain that movement caused, reached out and gently touched her cheek. She jumped as though afraid, but placed her hand over his when he didn't move it.   
"Where are we?" The warrior asked after several moments, uncomfortable with the painful silence.   
"The Twin Dragons. In Val Royeaux." Tarja replied, seeming to regain some sort of composure. Alistair blinked at her imploringly. "It's... a brothel." She muttered, apparently embarrassed by the fact.   
"Dragons. Prostitute... Dragons."  
The mage managed a tight smile at his consistently ill-timed humour. "Orlais let us borrow some buildings just inside Val Royeaux. To... care for our wounded." A touch of sadness brushed her expression once again. The darkspawn were thorough, if nothing else. When Blighted blood mixed with a person's own, there was little that could be done for them. There would be more corpses than wounded. A pang of guilt overtook Alistair as he realised that he hadn't even acknowledged that Tarja had been the one who had allowed him to be one of the few.  
Looking down once more at his ruined chest, the ex-templar frowned, unused to the sight of so much of his own blood. He had been inured in combat before- an embarrassingly high number of times, in fact (including at least three times during every fight for which he had accompanied Lyna)- but he had never been incapacitated quite so severely as this.  
"Tarja, I... I... Thank you for not letting me die. I've seen so many people go. So many people just leave this world without making so much as a mark. Lyna died to save all of Thedas, she'll be known in history books and in legends for centuries. But... In a few hundred years, who'll remember the name Duncan? If it wasn't for Duncan, neither me nor Lyna would have been Wardens, but no one will remember him," Alistair could feel angry tears in his eyes as he spoke. He made no effort to hold them back. "He'll just fade from existence like all those people at Ostagar. All the people who died protecting Val Royeaux-"  
"He won't." Tarja stated firmly. The conviction in her voice made the male pause. Because all the people who knew him will remember him. So the people who's lives he touched will tell their own stories of him. Duncan will have his own tales. But this is tale now. Wouldn't you rather it be about those of us still alive, rather than those who have already gone to the Maker?"  
Alistair didn't reply. He didn't have to. He simply stared at this woman, this woman who had twice given him back his life, who had chosen him over the thousands of others, and wondered what wonderful mistake the Maker had made to allow such a perfect person to be. Gentle hands reached over to wipe away his tears, but he could already feel fresh ones brewing- though now he couldn't tell whether they were tears of grief or of joy.  
Tarja slipped quietly onto the bed, moving moving her leg over his body so that she was straddling him. Alistair's face immediately went beetroot red. This sort of proximity would have been embarrassing on a normal day; laying on a bed with a noticeable lack of clothes made it significantly more so. For several moments, they just... Were. Tarja seemed content to simply kneel there over him, her chocolate brown eyes an entrancing mixture of passion and tenderness. Then the young man tried to speak, to say something- he didn't know what, anything to alleviate the tension he felt- and she moved to stop him, locking her lips firmly with his own. The kiss tasted sweet, but it was by no means gentle. Alistair flushed all the more deeply add he felt the woman's tongue press against his lower lip in an attempt to gain entrance. Not knowing what else to do, he opened his mouth a little, and Tarja intertwined her tongue sensually with his. The warrior's hands had been limp upon the bed, but now he found that they began to move of their own accord, first running up her slim sides, then fumbling with clumsy fingers at the ties of her clothes. Part of him wanted to stop right there, to go back to that uncertain but comfortable relationship they had maintained for barely a week, but the other part- most notably his lower parts- certainly disagreed.   
Alistair, with nowhere to go, could not have broken the kiss if he'd wanted to, so it was Tarja who pulled back first, breathless- if only for a second, to pull her top over her head and carelessly dispose of it. The Ferelden hadn't even seen her remove her boots and woollen breeches, but he could feel her bare legs against his. The mage sat back and, standing on no sort of ceremony, you're off the remainder of her clothes, leaving her naked. Alistair felt as though he should say something but, lacking the words to do so, he reached out and cupped a breast in his hand. Tarja frowned, seemingly unsure how to respond to the action, but it almost instantly turned to a gasp of shocked pleasure as the young man pressed his nail gently into her nipple, causing it to stiffen. A low moan escaped her lips as he to rolled the hardened bud between his fingers.   
By the time Tarja swatted his hands away and let her body flop heavily onto the bed beside him, weak from the intensive pleasure, Alistair was no longer sure who was in control of the situation. Ignoring the stab of pain it brought, he rolled himself over, sitting up a little way, the better to place himself between the mage's legs. She looked down at him sharply, brown eyes wide as he spread her thighs slightly, regarding her nether regions almost lustfully. She opened her mouth, perhaps to object, perhaps to request a break, but all that emerged was a long groan as the man pressed his mouth to her. He kissed her, lapping tenderly at the wet pinkness between her legs, and it was just moments before he heard her cry out again. Her back arched, hands clutching desperately at the white sheets, her body shuddering with relief.   
"A-Alistair..." She murmured, staring up at him incredulously, breath coming in heavy, trembling gasps. Following her release, her body was too weak to evade his advances, and as he moved to be on level with her, positioning himself for the inevitable final phase, her only reaction was a faint whimper of protest. Even that died away to nothing in just moments, and she succumbed fully to the promise of pleasure. Alistair did not know where he found the confidence to begin, but begin he did, sliding into the woman slowly and tauntingly. He felt a shiver pass through her prone form, and her nails dug very slightly into the skin of his back. As he began to thrust, each almost unnoticeably faster and harder than the last, he wrapped strong arms about her slender body and pulled her gently against him. Her skin was damp with sweat, breath hot and ragged against his neck. She held him as he held her, albeit with nails that now jabbed deep into his flesh.Tarja made a noise somewhere in between a groan and a scream, and went limp in his arms. Alistair felt a warmth flow from within her, and realised she had hit her orgasm again.   
"Stop... Alistair... I need a minute..." The mage begged, but he could not. He could feel a pressure building within himself, and to stop now would require a mental strength he simply did not have. Tarja's eyes opened wide as she realised what he was doing, and she gave a shocked gasp as he began to thrust even harder. Alistair felt ever muscle in his body clench with ecstasy as he spilt his seed, before he and the mage he had come to love collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and bedclothes.   
"I-Idiot..." Tarja muttered weakly, nestling her head into his shoulder. If she said more, Alistair didn't hear it, for in just moments he had fallen once more into the dark comfort of sleep.   
\---------------------------------------------------  
"Did you have to describe that part in such detail?"   
Tarja's face now wore an expression of sheer outrage, but throughout the tale, Alistair had been able to enjoy it cycling through a variety of colours, from white right the way up to an almost glowing shade of crimson.   
"I was told to recount it exactly how it happened." The warrior retorted with a cheeky grin. His fiance made a noise of agitated exasperation, and stalked off in a huff.   
The scribe who had been tasked with recording the events now two years passed, a young Warden by the name of Harvey, was regarding his superior with what may have been anything from admiration to horror. His quill was hovering over a suspiciously empty page, several black puddles forming under its inked tip.  
"Please tell me you wrote all that down."  
"Um... Sorry, Sir, I was listening too hard. It was an... interesting story."  
Alistair sighed, and glanced out of the window. The sky had long since darkened, and beyond the glass nothing was visible of the blasted hills of the Anderfels.   
"Go get some sleep then. We'll try again tomorrow."   
The scribe packed away his parchment and ink quickly, leaving the Warden stood alone with the books in the room, smiling at old memories.


End file.
